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Martin notices it first in front of the bathroom mirror, one morning while he’s brushing his teeth. He frowns at his reflection, leans in and squints to make sure it’s not just a trick of the light, grasping at the offending lock of hair.
“What are you looking at?” asks Jon, who’s pottering around in the cabinet behind him.
“I’m going gray,” Martin says. It’s unmistakable now he looks at it, silvery strands scattered among the red-blond of his hair. Not as stark a contrast as the gray in Jon’s black hair, which is probably why he didn’t notice it until now, but definitely apparent. Jon pops into the frame of his reflection, peering at the crown of Martin’s head.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, as if it’s a mildly interesting fact. He kisses Martin on the cheek. “Welcome to the club, love.”
He doesn’t sound at all sympathetic.
The gray hair is just the start of it. After that, Martin starts to notice all sorts of other things; the way his knees creak, the twinge in his lower back if he’s slept on it funny the night before, the involuntary grunt of exertion that escapes him when he gets up from a low-riding chair. Hangovers are the worst part. Not that he’s ever been a wild party animal, but these days if he so much as looks at a glass of Sauvignon Blanc the wrong way he gets an all day headache.
There’s no two ways about it: he’s getting old.
“I’m getting old,” he complains while searching for the glasses he’s recently started wearing to read. Jon, who’s worn glasses since he was a kid, snorts.
“Yes, well, that’s linear time for you.”
“I’m getting old,” he despairs when his joints ache the day after they go hill walking; it wasn’t even that steep of a climb. This time Jon gives him a sympathetic look.
“I’ll get you a hot water bottle.”
“I’m getting old,” he mutters groggily when he’s shaken awake from where he fell asleep in front of the telly. Jon just smiles and kisses the crown of his head.
“Time for bed, old man.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?” he demands, while they’re having lunch in their local pub one Sunday afternoon.
“What’s that?” asks Jon, eating some Yorkshire pudding.
“Getting old. It’s one of those things, you know? You never think it’ll actually happen to you.”
Jon pauses for a moment, considering seriously. He always considers his answers seriously, no matter how frivolous the question; it’s one of the many things Martin loves about him. Finally, he shakes his head.
“No, it doesn’t bother me.” Then he frowns. “It bothers you though.”
“I mean…a bit? I know that probably makes me sound shallow or something. It’s just—I spent my whole twenties working at the Institute and worrying about being found out, and then years being actively terrorized by our evil boss, and I dunno, it just kind of feels like I missed out on being young? Like that was something the Eye…took from me. From us.”
“Oh,” says Jon, his expression soft and sad.
“It’s stupid, I know.”
“It’s not,” Jon insists, reaching across the table to lay his hand on top of Martin’s. “You’re right—the Eye took all that from us. I spent my thirtieth birthday in a coma.” He gives a sardonic little laugh, and Martin’s heart hurts for him; it always does, even after all this time, when he thinks of Jon lying in that hospital bed.
“Jon…”
Jon shakes his head. “I’m not trying to make this about me, I just mean…all that—what we lost—it bothers me, of course, but getting older doesn’t.” He smiles. “Did you know that we’ve now officially been here longer than we worked together at the Institute—and…all the rest?”
“We have?” Martin frowns, calculating in his head, and wow…Jon is right. How did he not notice the time passing by like that? Their life here, in this world that’s so like their own—though not exactly—has become comfortable. Well worn and familiar, like a favorite jumper that you scarcely even notice you’re wearing, it fits so perfectly.
“Almost six years now,” Jon confirms. “We’ve been here together for longer than we even knew each other back there. Getting older doesn’t bother me, because every ache and pain and gray hair is a reminder that the Institute, Jonah Magnus— all of it is in our past. This is our life, and I want to live it together until we’re properly old—absolutely ancient—until the time we’ve been together is most of our lives. That sounds pretty wonderful to me.”
“That…sounds pretty wonderful to me, too,” says Martin. There’s a lump rising in his throat and a suspicious wetness in his eyes that he has to blink away. He grips Jon’s hand tighter across the table, and smiles at him. Jon smiles back, and Martin sees the precise moment it turns into a mischievous smirk.
“Of course, if you want to dye your hair and go clubbing, I’ll fully support you,” says Jon, and a helpless huff of laughter escapes Martin’s lips.
“Oh shut up,” he says affectionately.
“No, really,” Jon continues, grinning like a Cheshire cat now. “Maybe you should look into getting a sports car? I hear that’s a classic move when you’re having a midlife crisis.”
“So is trading in your partner for someone younger,” says Martin with a mock glare, but the effect is ruined when Jon bursts out laughing, and then Martin’s laughing properly too, tears of mirth running down his cheeks.
“Seriously though,” says Jon when they’ve both recovered. “The way you’re feeling—it’s normal. People worry about getting older. If you want to talk about it any time, I promise I’ll listen.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Martin says; honestly, he feels better already. Jon smiles.
“Of course, love,” he says, and then: “It’s the least I can do for a venerated elder of the community.”
“Oi!” Martin grins, and then they’re laughing again, and everything’s good. The past is in the past, and the future is theirs to live, and everything’s good.